


The Best Laid Plans...

by BeautifullyObsessed



Series: Crimes of the Heart [5]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bees, Chelsea Physic Garden, Courtship, F/M, Lovers Quarrel, Misunderstandings, Reconciliation, Romance, a season of bliss, a tour of London, beehive, botanical gardens, but things don't go exactly as planned, damn that hurt!, gentle surprises, his favorite deductions, initial chapter(s) are Tessa POV, later chapter(s) will be Sherlock POV, not what was expected, old-fashioned kind of romance, one sexy tour guide, pressing onward despite the dark clouds, rain may spoil the mood, surprises in store
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-18
Packaged: 2018-02-12 09:35:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2104743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautifullyObsessed/pseuds/BeautifullyObsessed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spring gives way to summer as their unexpected love story continues. Sherlock plans a day to show Tessa some of his favorite places in London, including the sites of some of his most brilliant deductions. The weather and circumstances do no completely cooperate, but he is not to be deterred. Her patience may not be infinite, but she continues to show him, in her inimitable way, how much she adores him.  Lovers quarrels can be good for the soul.</p><p>"The best laid plans of mice and men, he mused to himself, ever fail to take into account the wonders of a woman's heart."</p><p>A follow-up to "In Her Element".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I have no claim to Sherlock Holmes; all credit to the amazing BBC Creators, Cast & Crew, for bringing Conan Doyle's world to life so beautifully, so brilliantly, so inspirationally. 
> 
> If you are joining Sherlock & Tessa's story already in progress, know that she is an American actress happily & gratefully making a quiet living on the London stage. That she has found a place in the life of this singular genius of a man is of constant marvel to her. Treat with her well, if you can, Kind Reader, for she loves him to the point of distraction--and really can any of us blame her?

Tessa learned early on—much to her unbridled joy—that weekends were hers. Since that first Saturday night (which had stretched into the sweetest long weekend of her life, when they'd barely left her flat **-** let alone her bedroom-as she tutored Sherlock in the wonders of the flesh) he choose to spend however much time as he could in her company, and best of all, in her arms. These days, from the moment she exited the stage door following the Saturday evening performance of  _Twelfth Night_ , until late afternoon Monday when she departed her flat to return to the theatre, (and often as not, Sherlock would accompany Tessa back to the stage door, although  _that_  usually interfered with his willingness to kiss her goodbye—so publically-with the ardor she preferred) his time was all hers. Unless, of course, he had a case that required his undivided attention, but Tessa had come to believe he made certain such cases would be resolved before the weekend arrived. It was a season of enduring bliss for Tessa.

And so life fell into the pleasantest of patterns, Sherlock being very much a creature of habit, and Tessa ever willing to accommodate his needs. That was not to say their time together became rote. Sherlock seemed to be making up for many years of missed opportunities, and Tessa was more than happy to indulge his appetite. Even with as much as she had schooled him in, there were times he would surprise her with a certain sort of touch or an unexpected, but wholly sensual, move. Tessa had to wonder, when such moments arose, just where they came from; he had a growing, remarkable knowledge of the pleasure points of the human body—the female body, in fact-and she thought it very possible he'd turned his considerable intellect to  _researching_ what might please her best. Whatever the case—however they played—his compass always led him, in the end, to her true north.

Spring had been generally mild this year, and had made a gentle transition to the slightly warmer days of early summer. It was Tessa's fourth June in London, and it amazed her how the climate dovetailed with her bloom of happiness. Even the rains were soothing, refreshing, and she couldn't mind occasionally being caught without her umbrella, grateful to be alive in such a vibrant city; grateful to be falling deeper in love this with this most spectacular man.

Closing night for  _Twelfth Night_  was fast approaching. Under ordinary circumstances, Tessa would begin soon to feel blue, but how on earth could she fall into that old habit when she had so much to be thankful for? She had started to consider increasing her hours at the store, to make up for the lost income the end of this production would bring, but was determined it would not interfere with her time with Sherlock. If necessary, she told herself, she'd even settle for a waitress position somewhere, until the next acting job came through.

Turned out she didn't have to wait for long. The Leicester Square Theatre was mounting a production of Daphne du Maurier's  _Rebecca_ , and the Director had decided to put a new spin on it by making the young, naïve and unnamed waif who marries into Manderley, an American. The opportunity seemed to be have been tailor made for Tessa, and one that, out of the blue, came looking just for her. In late May, the Managing Director of LST had attended a performance of  _Twelfth Night_ with a group of friends, and fortunately for Tessa it was on one of the evenings she had filled in for the actress playing Viola. Having read her biography, he quickly recommended to the Producers and Director that they have her read for the role of Mrs. DeWinter. She had been utterly flabbergasted when she received the call; this was pure West End, something to which she had aspired, but never dreamed would come her way so soon.

The first week of rehearsals overlapped with closing week of  _Twelfth Night_ , but Tessa made easy work of burning the candle on both ends. If she nodded off too swiftly those nights, having only just laid her head upon his shoulder, Sherlock never complained, understanding precisely how important this was to her career, and easily seeing how happy the whole thing made her. He had never looked for romance in his life, let alone someone who seemed to know instinctively what he needed on so many levels. He marveled still that she could want him so, flawed and selfish as he was, and thus it was no burden for him to show her the patience that he lacked in so many other areas of his life.

It was soon enough, to her happy surprise, that Tessa realized she could afford to take a leave of absence from the store, and consider herself a fulltime  _employed_  Actress. Life couldn't be sweeter—a plum job to fulfill her artistic yearnings while enabling her to pay the rent, and the most amazing man to hold her at the end of most days, when she never dreamed she'd ever want to fall in love again.

* * *

 

It was Tessa's first free Saturday—no performance, no rehearsal—and Sherlock had planned a day of sharing with her the secrets of  _his_  London. Or at least make a beginning of showing her the world that could so easily be missed by eyes that didn't know what to look for. His favorite haunts, and some of the places of his greatest deductions. Not to impress her, as he knew there was no need for that, but to share those things that were part of who he was. He'd pictured what Tessa's reactions might be, anticipating the simple pleasure of the admiration in her eyes. The thought of Tessa placing her hand in his, or even just resting it upon his arm, as they traveled London's less trod paths, left him feeling eager about the prospects in store.

The sky was overcast, and the air a little cooler than it had been for several days, but not enough to deter the couple as they stepped out of the door of her flat. Tessa turned to the right, assuming their destination was the café a couple blocks away, while Sherlock stepped to the curb to hail a taxi. Realizing her mistake, she returned to his side, "But I thought we were having brunch," she said lightly.

"We are," he answered, focused on the cab as it pulled alongside them, "and I have the perfect place in mind." Sherlock opened the door and guided Tessa into the backseat. She settled back, curious—Sherlock wore his enigmatic smile as he slid in beside her, and she wondered, smiling herself, if there was a surprise of sorts in store. Whatever it could be, she knew asking would be of no avail, for he was clearly enjoying projecting an air of mystery.

Leaning forward, Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of their destination, than sat back and took her hand. He was now smiling broadly, looking very pleased with himself. Tessa laughed softly. "What?" he queried. Tessa squeezed his hand, telling him, "Oh nothing really," her expression as mysterious to him as his had been to her. Sherlock raised a single brow, his question unspoken, so she continued, "You look like a little boy with some sort of delicious secret." Tessa held up her free hand, as he opened his mouth to reply, "Don't tell me, though. Let me just enjoy the anticipation a bit." She trailed a finger along his cheek, biting her lip, her eyes full of mischief, then kissed him squarely on the mouth, before sitting back again to enjoy the ride.

Tessa soon realized their journey's end was clear across town in Hounslow, deepening the sense of something extraordinary in store. Either an intriguing surprise or a gastronomical treat. Whatever the case, her faith in Sherlock's choice was strong—Tessa couldn't recall a single time when she hadn't enjoyed new things he'd introduced her to.

Although it was a late Saturday morning, the small bistro where the cab deposited them, had plenty of open tables. Sherlock touched her elbow, prompting her to take a seat at a table outside, under the protection of a large umbrella. He pushed her chair in, and then sat across from her. Tessa wondered at his choice of outdoor seating, but supposed that if the clouds decided to open up, the umbrella would keep them mostly dry.

Their waitress approached them within moments, and Tessa insisted on mimosas to start their day. Sherlock acquiesced without objection, for it was a perfect way to start the adventure he felt was in store.

They had the patio practically to themselves. Tessa was telling Sherlock about the progress of rehearsals for  _Rebecca_ , when their breakfasts arrived. She expected to food to be exceptional—for why else would he have had them travel across town?—but a few bites left her somewhat disappointed. That perplexed her, but she decided not to mention it; he seemed happy enough with his plate, and she didn't want to spoil the moment for him.

Sherlock noticed she was rather picking at her food. "Is there something wrong, Tessa?"

She looked up from her plate, knowing she needn't fib to him; he probably already could tell she wasn't all that thrilled with the meal. Tessa shrugged and told him, "Well, it's sort of bland. And there's an aftertaste to these eggs that I can't seem to identify." She laid her fork down, leaning across the table, to ask him confidentially, "How are yours?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "Frankly, awful." He shook his head, snorting quietly, "I don't remember it being  _this_  bad."

"Sherlock," Tessa asked, as amused as she was astonished, " _'this_ bad' implies it was bad to begin with. So why did you bring us here, when there was a perfectly yummy little café down the road from my flat?"

He looked at Tessa benevolently, the picture of patience as he told her, "We're not here for the food, we're here for  _that_." He pointed directly across the street, where stood a somewhat dilapidated cinema. The marquee read  _The Winslow_ , and though the condition of the building was more than well-worn, the sign indicated it was open nights and weekends, and specialized in presenting " _The Best of Film Noir, Past & Present"_. There were several movie posters, most in black and white; it appeared as though they rotated through half a dozen or so movies each week, often showing them as double-features. Tessa hadn't expected Sherlock to be a fan of old Hollywood pictures, but she supposed he enjoyed the mysteries they depicted. She would never have guessed he'd planned to take her to a movie, but she was happy to go if that was what he'd had in mind. "We're here for a matinee?" she asked, finishing her drink.

"No, no," he answered good-naturedly, "nothing as pedestrian as that. That building was a key to solving a case a few months back." Tessa adored the way his eyes and the corners of his mouth crinkled with his proud smile. This shouldn't have been a surprise to her; in fact, she should have guessed that sometime soon Sherlock would want to share the stories of his favorite victories. She found it entirely sweet and entirely in keeping with his nature, and took very seriously her role—to ask him for the details, and listen attentively.

And so she did, pushing her plate aside, to rest her elbows on the table, chin in hand, content as he outlined the case and his resolution. He explained that a 15 year old girl—Amanda Hubbard—had gone missing from her bedroom one February night, following a terrible row with her parents. Scotland Yard had failed miserably to come up with even a clue as to the girl's whereabouts, or worse, her fate, so her father eventually came to Baker Street, hoping Sherlock could find her soon and safely. He immediately set out to learn what he could of the girl. Following her online footprints was easy, for someone with Sherlock's skill and deductive reasoning, and interviewing her friends was fairly straightforward. (Tessa grinned at this, for surely girls of such an age would be very beguiled if he approached them in the right way, and she knew herself that Sherlock was a chameleon of charm, when he set his mind to it). On the whole, the girls gave the impression of being worried about Amanda, but he noticed signs which told him otherwise; meaning they likely knew where she was and that she was indeed safe. Having discovered one of Amanda's keenest interests was the old black & white films of the 40's (he deduced that she fancied herself a potential femme fatale, after reading some of her online fan fiction), he set out to observe what he learned were some of her favorite places in the city.

In short order, he discovered  _The Winslow_ —which had reported a series of break-ins over the course of the previous two weeks—was her happy hideout. Amanda had managed to make herself a few areas to bed down in, careful to alternate among them enough so she hadn't been spotted. She spent most evenings in the balcony, enjoying the films she venerated, sneaking out when she could for supplies, and even keeping in touch with her closest friends—without revealing her location—via social media accessed on computers at several public libraries. Sherlock had been quite impressed with the girl's ingenuity and resourcefulness. He and John retrieved the girl themselves, returning her to her parents, who were relieved beyond words. Sherlock warned them she was bright enough to pull another disappearing act if they were too extreme with their punishments; he actually sympathized a bit with the girl, living with parents who didn't quite understand her motivations or appreciate her advanced intelligence.

Tessa applauded the conclusion of his tale, glad for the happy ending, and enjoying the warmth Sherlock exuded in the telling. She hadn't needed the tale to find him heroic, but she was wise enough to know that a man's ego (especially this man's) needed such from time to time.

By now, the clouds had darkened even more, and neither Tessa nor Sherlock were surprised when it began to drizzle. Sherlock settled the bill, and Tessa hoped they would find their way soon to a warmer, indoor location. Her flat, in fact, seemed ideal, to build a small fire and ward off the damp that had settled over the city. She refrained from asking, interested still in what other plans he had for the day. Instead, Tessa pulled a compact umbrella from her bag, though it wasn't big enough to cover them both; however, Sherlock didn't seem to mind the rain.

"Where to now?" she asked him, trying to ignore the rumble of hunger in her belly. Her flat would be perfect right now, she thought ruefully, where she could fix them a proper lunch in lieu of the inadequate brunch they'd barely eaten. Apparently, Sherlock was determined to press forward with his plans, despite the wet. Tessa waited with him at the curb, as he again flagged down a taxi. When it arrived, it did so with a mighty splash, that soaked her shoes and hose and the hem of her skirt. In his eagerness to proceed, Sherlock didn't appear to notice her discomfort.

Tessa got in the cab, doing her best now to keep irritation and impatience at bay, but a small pebble of resentment settled inside, though she truly hoped the journey would be better, drier, warmer, than it was now turning out to be. She didn't want to disappoint Sherlock, but she expected he would realize soon that perhaps this adventure might be better spent on a sunnier day.

_(to be continued)_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have taken some liberties in describing some of the sights to be seen in the Chelsea Physic Garden, for the sake of the story. Please just consider it artistic license.

"So, Sherlock, where are we off to now?" Tessa was fairly certain if he were to give an answer, it would be cryptic at best. And indeed, his response was a sly smile and a tilt of his head, before he moved forward to share with the cabbie their destination. He kept his voice low to maintain the mystery a while longer; Tessa did her best to hear the exchange between the two men, and caught the words "botanical gardens". Royal Botanical Gardens? Now that held some promise. She smiled to think of the treat in store—acres and acres of lush, verdant, grounds; bountiful color and delicate fragrances; a feast for the senses. Despite the inclement weather, Tessa knew there were spots sheltered from the rain and hothouses where thrived more exotic plants, and where the two might wait out showers that would otherwise dampen their day.

She knew, as well, that there were shaded, secluded little spots designed for visitors to rest and to enjoy the gardens and ornamental buildings, with wood or stone benches to take their ease upon. Sherlock was rarely one for public displays of affection, but Tessa imagined at least a few of those settings might be private enough to entice him to pitch a bit of woo. Where, protected from the gloomy elements, the botanical gardens might just make for a pleasant way to pass the afternoon. Tessa sighed with happy anticipation.

It shouldn't be too far, she thought, consulting her mental map of London. Richmond on Thames, she concluded, very close by. Yet she realized the cab was heading in the opposite direction. Sherlock was staring out of the window, apparently wrapped in thought. Tessa placed her hand upon his to get his attention. "I thought I heard you say we were headed to the botanical gardens," she said perplexed, "Shouldn't we be going the other way?"

Sherlock patted her hand, telling her forebearingly, "No, my dear," giving her the crooked smile she adored, "these gardens are in Chelsea. Every bit as lovely as Kew Gardens, but with a much more interesting history."

Leave it to Sherlock to opt for the less travelled path, she thought fondly. Tessa only hoped  _these_  gardens offered the same sort of benefits as Kew- and some protection from the rain, the steady beat of the taxi's wiper blades reminding her of what waited outside their windows. She leaned against Sherlock without a further word, patient to see what was in store.

They were travelling eastward, on streets that ran a steady parallel to the river. Business districts gave way to living space, green with small parks and well-kept lawns. Tessa, taking in the passing sights, commented with wonder, "This area seems like an ideal location for a public garden."

"Precisely," he instructed her, "The Chelsea Physic Garden, in fact. Some consider it one of London's best kept secrets."

Tessa had a vague recollection—she'd heard of this understated gem, predating the more spectacular Kew Gardens, but had never had the occasion to visit.

As the cab neared the area, Sherlock went on to tell her more. "It's one of the oldest public gardens in London, and not at all typical of what one would usually find. It was founded in 1673, as the Apothecaries' Garden, intended for the training of apprentices in identification and use of medicinal plants."

Tessa was listening raptly, not only to his explanation, but to the very sound of his voice. Sherlock was happy—holding forth, sharing a secret knowledge of sorts, with someone who appreciated what he was offering. She had to restrain herself from the temptation of nestling her hand against his chest, longing just to feel the deep vibrations of his voice; his remarkable voice, which under certain conditions, could melt her like butter on a hotplate.

"…filled with thousands of species of plants and trees from around the world, some of them quite rare. Edible plants, healing plants…" Sherlock paused dramatically, lowering his voice to disclose his favorite part of the secret, "…and the poisonous."

Tessa, relishing his clear enjoyment of sharing this fact with her, had to ask, "Really? And just why on earth would poisonous plants be included?"

Pleased she had followed his lead, Sherlock answered, "Well, some have medicinal qualities if extracted properly, or in very small quantities. And, considering the time period in which the garden was founded of course, one can't rule out their use for potential nefarious purposes."

Tessa smiled knowingly. There it is, she thought;  _that's_  the real reason you've brought me here. It wasn't the first time Sherlock thought he'd disguised his true motivation. And it certainly wouldn't be the last. She found this trait endearing, just one of the many that made him entirely irresistible to her.

The taxi delivered them to the inconspicuous front entrance, surrounded by high brick walls that gave no indication of what lay inside. The rain had lightened to sprinkles as they alighted from the cab, and it looked as though the sun was trying to break through the clouds. However, the air had cooled considerably since the bistro, so Tessa buttoned her coat, cinching the belt tighter to keep warmth close. She took Sherlock's proffered arm, to begin what he intended to be a private tour.

She found the grounds lovely, if less structured than expected. The areas were loosely organized, crisscrossed with gravel paths, creating a look and feel of casual grace. It seemed, in some places, that the plants were left to find their way as Nature intended, but Tessa also noted signs of low-key but loving maintenance. There were several horticulturists at work among the beds of plants, willing to answer questions from the visitors ambling about, and signs posted strategically, with names, descriptions and uses of most of the plants.

Sherlock, strolling beside her, pointed out the most interesting elements of the gardens, narrating a wealth of information. "The Swedish botanist Linnaeus-the inventor of the binomial scientific naming system we still use today-was a regular visitor in the 1730s. And it was from this garden that cotton was sent to the American Colonies in 1768."

He added, having just recalled this additional fact, "There's also the oldest man-made rockery in Europe, built from Icelandic lava stones in the late 18th century." It occurred to Tessa that his extensive knowledge and rich voice made him the sexiest tour guide she'd ever encountered, one whom she'd gladly follow in any weather.

There were dozens of tree species, many not native to England, but thriving still. Tessa recognized willow, alder, apple and ash; cedar, beech, elm and hawthorn, among many others. As they passed, Sherlock easily enlightened her as to their various medicinal purposes.

He pointed toward a small pool of water, flanked by stone benches, and teeming with water plants. "The ornamental ponds aren't just for decoration; there are several curative plants that flourish there as well."

Tessa paused to admire a plot of bright red poppies. The placard read  _"Papaver somniferum"_  –translated as  _Opium poppy._  Tessa read on, already knowing the flowers were the source of codeine and morphine—and their destructive cousin, heroin. Yet they looked so harmless and pretty, even reminding her of the scene from  _The Wizard of Oz_. She turned to mention this to Sherlock, to find him staring at them, his face somber. "Sherlock?" she called to him, curious as to where his mind had gone, "What is it, darling? What's wrong?"

Finally hearing her, Sherlock blinked a few times, then shook his head as he shook off whatever had held his attention. He gazed at Tessa, his eyes coming back into focus. "It's alright," his voice hoarse in answer, "I'm alright." Tessa could tell he was holding something back, but before she could ask again, he laid a hand on her shoulder, "Something you needn't be concerned about now." As she looked unconvinced, he added, "Believe me, Tessa, I'm fine. We can save this discussion for another day."

Tessa shrugged in resignation, respecting his request, but promising herself to revisit the topic some other time. She took his hand, trying to lighten the moment, "So, where are these poisonous plants? I know you've been longing to show me."

Sherlock nodded, smiling appreciatively, "And here I was thinking that you'd never ask." He stretched his arm around her waist, pulling her closer, "This way, my dear. I think you will find this quite fascinating."

* * *

 

Tessa wasn't surprised at all when Sherlock went on to tell her of a case he'd solved that involved a docent for these gardens, and poison concocted from the plants before them. An avid hobby had turned to murder, when the woman had decided she'd rather collect her inheritance sooner than later, tiring of waiting for her father to expire of natural causes. She'd done her research, finding poisons that, when combined, would mimic heart and respiratory failure, and were virtually impossible to trace…for the average detective, anyway. Sherlock, of course, had made quick work of it.

"Is that it, then?" Tessa asked, eyes on the sky now, as a steady, cold drizzle had crept upon them. "I think the sky is about to really open up…"

Sherlock first grimaced, then looked at her rather pleadingly, "There  _is_  one more thing, if you wouldn't mind. Won't take us more than a few minutes." Tessa knew that look—had employed it herself on occasion—so despite the chill that had insinuated itself into her bones, she gave him her hand. "Lead on, Sir…..but please do keep," she pointed heavenward, "this weather in mind."

She heard their destination before they'd reached it. A low but constant somnolent buzzing, coming from behind some low hedges. Rounding the corner, Sherlock still leading, Tessa saw an impressive looking beehive. There was little bee activity at the moment, which she assumed might have something to do with the weather.

"They have several hives scattered throughout the grounds. The bees are kept more for pollination than for honey collection, although I do believe what honey is harvested is sold raw, in the gift shop." Sherlock's voice was hushed as he told her of his interest in the habits and social hierarchy of honey bees. How he'd been mesmerized by their intricate dance of flight and how efficiently their hives operated, ever since finding one at the back of his mother's garden, when he had been eleven years old.

"Many were the afternoons," he reminisced, "I'd make my way to the garden, to observe them. Sometimes I'd just go when I needed a place for uninterrupted concentration. I found the hum of the bees at work in their hive very relaxing and conducive to quiet reflection." In that moment, Tessa saw an echo of the studious, serious boy he must've been, flicker across his features. To her heart, it was a treasure far above the lovely ones these gardens held.

Sherlock had moved to the far side of the hive, engrossed in study. "The wet and the chill in the air have made the bees sluggish" he observed, "They're apt to be a bit aggressive too, so be careful how you approach them."

At just that moment, Tessa felt a sharp stab on the side of her neck, "Oooowwww!...damn, that hurt!" She reached to the spot reflexively, and found a raised lump there. "Damn thing stung me."

Sherlock came to her, brushed back her hair and glanced at the swelling as it rose where her neck sloped into her shoulder. He nodded, confirming his suspicion, "Honey bee sting. You're not allergic, are you?" The note of concern in his voice matched his gentle touch. Tessa shook her head no, nearly pouting like a child, but pleased he was ministering to her. She would have been happy for him to kiss the pain away, but having established she was fine, Sherlock turned back to further observe the hive.

He seemed prepared to continue his lesson to her, but Tessa was not yet satisfied to follow along. "Why would it do that, Sherlock?" She tried to keep the hurt-that he had turned away so swiftly-from entering her voice.

He looked back to her, pondering his answer, straightening his back and clasping his hands behind him. "I suspect it was your perfume," he told her, as though she should have guessed the answer, it was so obvious, "The floral notes probably fooled him into thinking you were a new source of nectar. He was likely startled to discover you were not."

Tessa felt as though she was on a slow, steady burn, her voice on the edge of anger, "You say that as though it's  _my_  fault!"

"Hmmm," he responded, realizing the possibility as true, but missing Tessa's point altogether, "Well, in a way, it is, isn't it?" When her expression darkened, Sherlock understood what she'd actually meant; he rushed to correct his error, "Not intentional, of course. You..…you couldn't have anticipated such a thing occurring." He attempted a conciliatory smile, but it looked weak, forced.

Hurt had turned to anger, Tessa's voice harsh, "Perfume that was meant to attract you…not…" she sputtered a moment, failing to find the perfect word to contain her indignation, "…not…those!" roughly gesturing toward the hive.

Sherlock took a step in her direction, seeking to assuage, and told her calmly, "Tessa, you are being unnecessarily agitated. All is well, the damage isn't permanent. Your skin there is so thin; the bee didn't even leave the stinger behind, meaning it survived the encounter as well."

The throb of the bee sting left her feeling anything but well, but Tessa saw it would be useless to tell him so. On top of all else, the rain was falling harder, and the wind was picking up. She searched her pocketbook for her umbrella, shivering now, and realized with frustration that she had left it in the cab. Exasperated, feeling bedraggled, she snapped at Sherlock, "Can we go now, please?" Tessa hadn't intended to sound like a spoiled child, but the words tumbled out in a rush, surprising him with their vehemence, "I'm wet and cold and hungry, Sherlock. And I've lost my umbrella. I'd really like to leave before something worse than a bee sting happens." Tessa stopped herself from adding that the worse thing could very well be a mighty row with him. She was suddenly resenting the way he appeared to be ignoring her discomfort (and not just here, she reminded herself; he didn't even notice when the taxi had splashed her, back at the café, or the fact that she  _must_  be famished, from having barely eaten that horrible brunch). She was resenting the fact that he was warmly wrapped in a thick wool coat, and hadn't made a move toward sharing that warmth by holding her, or even giving it up altogether to drape around her shoulders.

Her ire seemed to Sherlock like a bolt out of the blue. He'd never seen this side of Tessa, and it shocked and disappointed him. He had planned a few more stops for the afternoon, but this mood of hers would surely carry over, and make the whole thing unpleasant for the both of them. "Come along, then," he told her, sounding cool and precise, "We needn't bother with anything more." He swept past her, heedless of the wind that had risen to whip the rainfall from every direction, his footfalls an angry crunch upon the gravel.

Tessa followed in his wake, already regretting her outburst—justified as it had been—and starting to wonder what to expect from an angry Sherlock. This was one new experience that she hadn't expected to encounter today, and she found herself wishing that she'd stayed snuggly in her flat instead of venturing out her door.

_(to be continued)_


	3. Chapter 3

As if reflecting the turmoil between them, the sky opened up with a vengeance, thoroughly soaking Tessa and Sherlock before they had exited the garden walls. Sherlock remained determined not to let the weather get the better of him, reminding himself they were leaving at Tessa's insistence. He was made of stronger stuff than to let such conditions be any more than a passing inconvenience.

It was several minutes until a taxi finally came in view, pulling up to the curb when Sherlock waved it down. Tessa remained silent at his side, meekly boarding the cab when he opened the door for her. Once on their way, he spared her a glance; she had left an icy distance between them, her hands in her lap, her head bowed slightly, clearly avoiding any interaction with him. So be it, he resolved. If she chose to behave as a child, then he would treat her as such, although he had never expected such juvenile conduct on her part. He took out his phone, eager for a distraction from the uncomfortable silence between them, checking for unopened texts (there were none), then scanning headlines on several news sites that he followed.

Failing finding anything of significance, Sherlock snuck a peek in Tessa's direction. She was shivering, but appeared to be trying to conceal that fact. It occurred to him that if she were to slip her hand in his—as she so often did when they sat in the backseat of the dozens of cabs they had taken together—he'd find an unfamiliar chill in her skin. It made him think that perhaps—just perhaps—he had not fully appreciated her level of discomfort as the afternoon had passed, absorbed as he had been in the enthusiasm to share his unique view of the city's eclectic offerings, and of his particular accomplishments.

It was feasible that the conditions of the day had pushed Tessa past a breaking point, and some minor magnanimity was called for in response. Sherlock cleared his throat, prefatory to breaking the uneasy silence that gripped the air. She looked at him, tearful and mute, chin quivering as she bit her lip to try and still it, and then turned to share those quiet tears with the window, rather than allow a word to pass between them.

Well, that's damnable, he thought, his irritation growing again, at her rebuff. Was Tessa actually attempting to play upon his sympathies? If so, she would find he gave no quarter in that regard. As pretty and endearing as her silly games and subtle maneuverings usually were, he would surely resist so blatant a ploy. Before this, Sherlock would have believed she was above such an act of outright guile; rather, he began to think that Tessa may, at last, have fallen prey to a general weakness of her sex. If so, she would find he was unlike others of his, and not the man to blithely fall for such a gambit.

Her quiet tears felt to him like an indictment, accusing him of selfishness, when he had only planned the day to please _her_. If Tessa was expecting an apology, she best prepare for disappointment. Sherlock was adamant on this at least: he was not the one that was obligated to mend what Tessa had so childishly broken. If the afternoon and evening were to be saved at all, the act of contrition must come from her.

His resolution firm, he turned to keep watch out of his own window, as the cab drew ever closer to her front door.

* * *

 

The question remained, as the taxi idled along the curb before the brownstone where Tessa lived; neither had spoken the entire journey, so who would break the silence now? Sherlock was ready to depart, if that was what she wished. He was relieved when Tessa finally asked plaintively, "Will you be coming in?"

His answer was curt, even as he tried to blunt the edge of gruffness from his tone, "Certainly. If that's what you want."

Tessa nodded, widening her eyes, with what he hoped was a small show of gratitude. She proceeded to the door, without turning back to see if he had followed.

Once inside, Sherlock hung up his damp Belstaff, resignedly, his annoyance banked but not forgotten. Tessa had draped her own wet coat on one of the high stools in the kitchen, and then moved to leave her handbag on the armchair in her small living room. She turned to him at last, her expression still clearly downcast, telling him, "Just let me get changed, and then I'll put a kettle on." She waited for his reply; he merely nodded his assent. Tessa pursed her lips, looking as though she had something to say, than shook her head, more to herself than to Sherlock.

He tried to sound even-toned, but his answer came out a bit touchy regardless, "If you've something to say, you best say it now. I have no patience for a histrionic pantomime."

His comment clearly cut her, and her forehead knit crossly. Tessa took a deep breath, raising her chin in defiance, and told him, "I wonder if I'd have been better off facing that storm full on, than to face the storminess of your brow…" She left the statement dangling between them, allowing her posture to soften, as though she was rethinking the wisdom of even having said it. Sherlock made a scoffing sound; this was not the apology he was looking for.

Tessa shrugged, and then started towards her bedroom, turning back at the edge of the hallway, "Look _,_ you should dry off as well," she told him, sounding more reasonable with each word as she tried to break through his testiness, "There are some spare bath towels on the shelf in the loo. By the time you're done, I'll have the tea ready, and I'll bet we'll both be feeling better and more like ourselves." He made no response, but Tessa waited still, obviously hoping he might relent from his sour mood. Seeing he would not, she shook her head again, sadly, and went into her room to change. She left the door open a crack, so Sherlock would know she was listening for him, ready to reconcile if he was so inclined.

He was most decidedly not so inclined, but she was right that he needed to dry off. Sherlock knew he was being obstinate, but sometimes the situation called for it. He made his way to the bathroom, grumbling to himself, pausing outside her door to listen if she had begun to cry, and was relieved that Tessa at least had the sense not to give in to further tears. He was certain there would be no salvaging the afternoon if she had, as at this point it would only serve to irritate him further.

Sherlock grabbed a towel from the bathroom shelf, rubbing it roughly against his hair to absorb the excess moisture, then tossed it over the shower curtain rod, not even really caring if it landed there or on the floor. Drying off that little bit actually did make him feel a tad better, though he was not ready to admit such to Tessa.

Instead, he ruminated upon the expectations he had held for the day-the satisfaction he had expected to experience when Tessa's bright eyes and admiring glance  _should_  have been the reward for his well-planned efforts; certainly not the opposite, when she had lashed out at him so peevishly. It dawned on Sherlock that his failed hopes of Tessa sending a bit of hero worship his way was as much to blame for their row, as her actual outburst in the Chelsea garden. That being the case, he knew he did bear some blame for it after all.

Sherlock stood before the mirror over the sink, intent on straightening his collar and seeing that the lines of his suit sat properly, as he considered his culpability in the affair, beginning to formulate a better response than the haughtiness he had displayed since they'd entered the flat. His mulish pride—which he knew could at times lead him to foolish, defensive behavior-was the key impediment to putting things right with Tessa. To his astonishment, Sherlock realized he valued her happiness more than the image he sought to project to the world. This was very rare indeed; there were so few that meant that much to him, so when he found such a soul, it always surprised him.

Thus enlightened, the scales dropped from his mind's eye. It was that which allowed him to notice a few, unobtrusive additions to her toiletries. There were now  _two_  brushes in the toothbrush holder, the one clearly fresh and meant for him. Set slightly apart from Tessa's cosmetics, there was a brand of deodorant for men, and a can of shaving cream, with a new razor beside it. It was a good quality item, and Sherlock knew with certainty that Tessa had taken great care in selecting it. He closed his eyes, a sudden warmth growing in his chest, for he also knew, that should he check the drawers of her dresser, he'd find several pairs of socks, and boxers in the brand and style he preferred.

All bitter thoughts of blame and disappointment, over the events of their disastrous outing, were driven from his mind, replaced with tender amazement. Sherlock smiled in genuine wonder and appreciation for these unexpected, modest offerings, left for him without a word, proof of Tessa's sweet nature and constancy. Proof he did not need, but gladly accepted. He had never imagined having his needs anticipated and fulfilled so quietly, and as though it was the most natural thing in the world. He wondered if Tessa even realized how very dear these unbidden kindnesses were, and that this was exactly the sort of thing that was slowly but surely making it impossible for him to consider a future without her in his life.

Leaving the bathroom, calling himself a fool under his breath, Sherlock recognized he had a fence or two to mend. He walked past Tessa's bedroom; the door was wide open, so he knew he'd find her now, in the kitchenette, preparing the tea as promised.

Her back was to him, and he watched as she set teacups on a tray, humming to herself, placing several biscuits on a plate beside the cups. He noted with no surprise, that they were his favorite kind. Sherlock felt a quiet shame replace the ire he had carried into the flat.

What further demonstration could he possibly need of how she cared for him? As if in answer, Tessa moved to the fridge and filled a small creamer, for  _his_  convenience surely, as he knew she preferred her tea with lemon. He closed his eyes, committing these ordinary moments of domesticity to memory, for they held a beauty far beyond the physical. Truly, he wondered, how did I come to deserve this gentle woman?

Tessa had braided her rain dampened hair into a single plait, which lay across her shoulder as her hands busied themselves with preparations. She had changed out of her wet clothes into a light pink, sleeveless blouse and denim capris, the pastel a fine compliment to the tan of her skin; he realized she must've spent some free time in the sun this week, although she'd not mentioned it to him. It was just a small surprise, as was the dark pink polish on the toenails of her bare feet. The easy casualness of her appearance made her all the more appealing, standing as she was, unaware he was watching her. Tessa looked the epitome of a carefree Saturday afternoon; what should be a trouble free afternoon, that could be all his to enjoy  _if_  he had the sense to do so.

The kettle appeared about to whistle, so Sherlock went to the stove, turning off the heat, and then placed it on a back burner. His movement broke Tessa's reverie. She looked at him, puzzled but smiling, starting to ask why he had stopped the kettle, but Sherlock shushed her with a finger across his lips and a nearly silent 'sssh', as he proceeded to stand before her. The question was still clear in her eyes; his answer started with a gentle motion, as he lifted her chin with a light touch of his fingers, moving in to kiss her. A kiss he hoped would convey both the awe he felt for the unasked for generosities she gave him at every turn, and the apology he knew she rightly deserved.

"Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, her lips still close to his, "what…why…" Tessa trailed off, still unsure what had brought about his abrupt change of mood.

He smiled slowly and then kissed her cheek, his voice serene, "Toothbrush." Tessa's eyes widened, and Sherlock kissed her other cheek, and told her, "Razor." This time, Tessa gave a little gasp, realizing what he was referring to. He paused to look at her, his eyes crinkling as his smile grew, "Biscuits."

Tessa bit her lip, tilting her head insouciantly, seeming to hold her breath as she waited for him to decide what came next. That was no hardship for him; his foul mood over his disappointed plans-and what he realized was Tessa's understandable reaction to his thoughtlessness—had completely passed, replaced with the sure desire to make up for his selfish behavior. Sherlock thought that, in this case, Tessa would agree that actions might speak louder than words.

And so he took her hand, leading her down the hallway to her room, and finally to her bed. It had been silly of him to place such importance on the success of his designs for the day, when Tessa's truest desires were only for his company and his happiness. The best laid plans of mice and men, he mused to himself, ever fail to take into account the wonders of a woman's heart.

* * *

 

Afterwards, as the once bothersome, summer rain beat a steady, soothing rhythm against the window glass, they lay contentedly tangled in the bedclothes and one another. This silence was comfortable; there was no rush or need to fill it with anything but the soft sound of lovers breathing in sync, each with the other, as the afternoon gave way to early evening. Later there would be take-away to satisfy another sort of appetite, but the warmth they shared beneath her sheets held them rapt in one another.

Tessa's head resting on his shoulder, her left hand idly tracing small, whisper-soft circles on his chest, they spoke of many things, grand and trivial and even mystifying, always in tacit agreement that this first lovers quarrel need not be revisited. Eventually, she asked, and Sherlock finally spoke more fully of his past experience. "Yes, somewhat," Sherlock was saying, "yes, but they were really just hormonal fumblings in the dark. At university, I was more like to be the odd man out when the tie was on the doorknob." He paused, the bitterness of such memories now abated by the gentle ones he was creating with Tessa. "The girls I knew, well, it never lasted long; I'd lose interest quite quickly as I grew bored with their mundane concerns and goals, or worse, I'd say or do something I thought perfectly logical and sensible, but would make her mad as hell." Tessa ceased her circling fingers, laying her hand flat against his chest, feeling his steady heartbeat. Her touch, as always now, soothed him agreeably. "I just got tired of trying. It didn't seem worth the effort for the momentary pleasure of the flesh. I wanted my  _mind_ stimulated, and they weren't up to that task." Sherlock exhaled a "Hmmmm", surprisingly glad to have confided that old secret to her.

She moved her head slightly and kissed his along his jaw. "And now—do I stimulate your mind? Or do I chance you growing bored with me as well?" The question would be self-serving if posed to any other man; but from Sherlock, Tessa wanted no pretty, bedroom lie, even if his answer might sting a bit, even as they lay in the bed they'd so thoroughly tumbled.

Sherlock chuckled softly "My mind, why yes you do, thus far. You have surprised me more than once, as I've told you before, and therein lies great charm—" he paused for dramatic effect, and added teasingly "and your power over me." Tessa tapped his chest lightly, in mock irritation.

But he collected that hand in his and kissed her fingertips with an uncommon sort of reverence. He looked her squarely in the eyes, tightening his embrace unconsciously, "But I've learned from you something I'd never taken the time to consider. Before, I couldn't see, let alone  _appreciate_ , the depth and beauty of a woman's heart." Sherlock drew a deep, satisfied breath, then continued, "That is the biggest surprise of all—and it's a well that draws me in—I only want more." He brushed his lips against her brow, his voice intimate and low, " _If_  you'll have me."

In answer, Tessa only nestled her head against his shoulder, astonished and too moved to speak. Silence reigned again for a little. Sherlock wasn't concerned; he could read in her body language that what he'd said had touched her profoundly. After a bit, he asked the question he knew she was waiting for, "And what about you?"

Tessa inhaled slowly and then sighed with slight exasperation—for the memories, not the moment. "Actors, mostly. Hazard of the profession, especially when you're young." she told him, sounding more sheepish than regretful, "Good-looking, charming, bright-for the most part. But filled with vanity, and egocentric at their worst." Her voice was tinged with amusement, in recollection, "Like a brilliant flash, empty after the sudden light. It took me a  _few_  tries to get  _that_  lesson." Tessa paused for thought, then continued, "Then the chance came to study at RADA for a spring term, and I jumped at it. Left everything familiar behind, here on my own, for love of the art I wanted to gain some mastery of. Strictly vowed I wouldn't get distracted by  _any_ man." Her voice grew soft and sad, "But then along came Hal. And you know that part."

Sherlock nodded, familiar with this part of her past. Though Tessa usually avoided the topic, or only spoke of it around its edges, he knew her engagement and loss remained one of the most defining chapters of her life. He didn't speak yet; it felt like she had more to say. Tessa continued haltingly, as her emotions began to leak through "It's important I say this to you, okay? You need to know, and I hope the timing doesn't damage what we seem to be building here." Sherlock felt the flutter of her lashes tickle his skin, knowing she had closed her eyes in concentration. "Hal was wonderful, a dream, a soldier, a gentlemen, and very much a hero. His death alone would tell you that." Tessa's breath hitched now, as the weight of the memories hit her, "And I was incredibly numb for so long after he died, accepting that our future together had been wiped out in literally a heartbeat."

Her sigh was long before she continued, "But eventually I found life again, I found the memories still hurt, but I could smile about my possibilities once more. I found joy in my work, which was the biggest healing of all. But I truly never expected to ever be able to give my heart to anyone, because it could mean losing all over again, in one way or another."

Tessa raised herself up a bit, so she could look him directly in the eyes. Sherlock had known without seeing, that tears were falling again, but seeing them on her face was like a little arrow to his heart. "Loving like that, and being loved back in kind, fundamentally changes a person. And I don't  _expect_  to hear those words; I'm not so foolish as to think you are the sort of man who might say them..." She hesitated here, closing her eyes, surely deciding  _if_  she should dare say the next, then looking at him unwaveringly "...but I just need you to keep in mind be careful with my heart," Tessa placed her own hand over his heart, a move of instinct more than purpose, "because after all this time, I guess it's still kind of fragile, and I'm not ready for another break. I'm trusting you now, and good god," she finished as she lay back on the pillow beside him, "I've probably said way too much, way more than you probably wanted to hear. My mouth gets me in trouble  _every_ time…"

Sherlock went up on his elbow to lean over her, smoothing the tears from one cheek away with a sweep of his thumb, and kissing those on the other gently away. His face hovered over hers, as he nodded almost imperceptibly, then stopped that mouth with a long, tender kiss. This path of emotional entanglement might perplex him still, as he continued to find his way with Tessa's guidance, but at the very least he knew the way to show her what had taken root in his own heart.


End file.
